


Losing Your Memory

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, John and Mary's Wedding, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is happy, Mary is happy, everything is fine.</p><p>Sherlock is in agony.</p><p>The wedding looms before them, and John is leaving him; John is leaving before they’ve even begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Your Memory

 

For a very short period of time, Sherlock Holmes had been content with life. The aspects of his world finally aligning like pins in a padlock, until everything was in its rightful place, and life was as it had always meant to be.

 

And if there were moments that dared threaten this peace, well then no door would be left unbarred, and he would take no prisoners, he would go to war to protect this way of life.

 

Happiness had always been a foreign concept to him, but for the first time, he’d been given a fleeting taste of what it was like, of what other people might feel on a daily basis. It had been so unexpected, such a new experience for him; he’d never known that life could feel this way, and he’d decided then and there that nothing in the world could ever persuade him to give it up.

 

It wasn’t perfect of course, nothing ever is, but it was close, the closest to perfect that he could imagine, perhaps as close as he would ever come.

 

He’d never really had anything that mattered so much to him before, for nearly thirty years he’d lived his life with no attachments or sentiments to tie him down; nothing worth holding onto, and nothing to lose. He preferred it that way, was content in his solitude, at least until John Watson came along.

 

Because somehow, John _wasn’t_ dispensable, he was valuable, John was important to him, and so for the first time, Sherlock found himself confronted with something that he actually _cared_ about. It was unprecedented, and frankly alarming, but despite his wariness he found himself unwilling to let go of the feeling; gripped by a strange urge to protect it.

 

Sherlock treasured those 18 months. John was the only Good Thing that had ever happened to him, and he dedicated himself to the task of preserving what they had; determined not to spoil it. Because he always does, he always ruins _everything_ , but not that, he would never allow himself to break that.

 

But inevitably, he _did_ spoil it; the only thing he had of value, the only thing that he’d ever wanted to keep. He did what he always did; he tore it down and threw it away.

 

Philosophers say that love is whatever you can still betray, and he thinks that love might just be the greatest destroyer of all.

 

Sherlock’s love began to break them in increments, before he even understood what it was. John’s denials, his endless successions of girlfriends; they brought with them a quiet unhappiness, just brief flickers of hurt, but deeper every time they found him. It became just another part of life, one that he learnt to withstand, and to endure, but never to make sense of. Understanding came later, only when it did; it came far, far too late.

 

There isn’t really a word to describe what John is to him, none of them feel sufficient enough to encompass it all, none of the definitions seem to fit. It is an abstract projection that only exists within his mind; he cannot convey or explain it in terms that would make sense to anyone but him.

 

It is the human condition to try and put a name to something intangible, to relate to the world around us, but the words we give them have no true meaning, like time, these definitions are merely constructs to help us cope in the face of the unknown. Every human mind works differently, with unique chemical reactions, neurons and thought patterns. Thus logic dictates that if we can never experience the world from another perspective, we can never really know for certain how someone else might feel pain, love, or sadness, cannot comprehend in what ways they might differ to our own.

 

We might call it the same thing, but no feeling can ever be conclusively said to be truly identical; they do not fit into the neat boxes we make for them. Because we cannot _become_ that person, to feel emotion as they do, our minds will always frame that experience into terms that we can understand, but we can never know, we can only imagine what really goes on in the space behind their eyes.

 

So the emotion John provokes from him is not something that he could ever elucidate with language or illustration; he only knows how it feels. For him, it is more than attraction, more than desire, deeper, even, than infatuation; he is lost. He’s been lost from the moment John walked into that lab.

 

It was quiet, John seeping into his mind, growing like ivy around his heart, a weed, a dangerous, beautiful weed; poison hovering inches away, just one slip and John would kill him in seconds. Quiet but not _slow_ , there was no transition phase, John had just suddenly been _there_ , and though it hadn’t in any way been love at first sight (an idiotic construct), the connection that formed had been nothing less than instantaneous.

 

Sherlock had sensed something different about him; he’d somehow known that he wouldn’t be like the others, that he was something new. Because when Sherlock first saw him, before he started to observe, before the stream of deductions came, the only thought that encompassed his mind was just ‘ _Oh’_.

 

It was exciting, that this seemingly ordinary man had any effect on him at all. He shouldn’t, why should he? But something about him made Sherlock take notice from the very beginning, for reasons unfathomable to him, he found John Watson _fascinating_ , the air between them _vibrating_ with potential, and he’d just known; he had to have him.

 

And against all odds, John actually chose _him_ in return. He hadn’t known what to expect (or if indeed to expect anything at all), and it made absolutely no logical sense, it was purely instinctual, but Sherlock still had a feeling, just mere moments after meeting John Watson, that his life would never be the same, for better or worse. And god, his instincts had been impeccable, because together they were _electric_.

 

He’d felt John’s presence in some inexplicable way, but the reasons for their chemistry eluded him, and try as he might, he could not predict what would result from their meeting, could deduce _nothing_ of what they would become. His inability to do so baffled him; the future lay unforeseeable before him, and the excitement of the challenge, the _novelty_ of the unknown sealed their fates, binding them together ( _Afghanistan of Iraq?)_

There had never really been any question about it; John was a delightful mystery, a delicious conundrum, one he’d wanted to explore so badly he ached with it. The universe had presented him a singular opportunity, one he’d no hope of resisting. Sherlock never wanted to; he wouldn’t have given this up for the world. Oh, how he just _could not wait_ to see what would happen.

 

He never had a chance.

 

Sherlock’s decision had been a turning point, and in that moment, he had been choosing more than just a flatmate, far more than he would ever know. In one instant, Sherlock gave him everything he had and more, because he never _fell_ for John; he jumped. Without thinking, or considering what lay below; he’d hurled himself into the abyss, blindfolded, the call of the void pounding in his ears.

 

But it had been reckless, naive; He’d played the game without knowing what was at stake, gambling his entire hand without ever having seen the cards. By the time he discovered what he’d lost, he had already signed away his life, and all free will right along with it.

 

No, it wasn’t gradual at all; John simply reached into Sherlock’s chest and conquered his entire being, seizing his beating heart in his fist without even having spoken a word.

 

It would take longer for Sherlock to realise what it was that had happened; _that_ was the slow part, for the death blow had already landed. All that was left was for Sherlock to catch up, and when he did; he had no more hope of undoing it than he had touching the sky. The deed was done. He could not choose not to love John, to tear himself away from his orbit, because that option had flown before he could contemplate it; he’d already chosen on that very first day.

 

He thinks about that day a lot; the dizzying potential he’d felt, and it fills him with the dull ache of nostalgia. _The end of an era._

 

Still, for all the hurt their meeting has caused in the end, he can’t find the strength within himself to regret any of it. Selfishness, masochism, call it what you will, but secretly he knows that if he were to live that day a thousand times, even knowing how it ends; the outcome would always be the same.

 

Everything they were, it had been so good, a more fanciful man might even say magical; they were the best moments of his life. How could he ever wish to delete them? John made him feel so alive; with John by his side they ran in leaps and bounds, heedless of the danger, drunk on each other. They were brothers in arms, running the streets, laughing in the halls, leaping across rooftops and tackling criminals.

 

He looks to John, and he _smiles_ ; that is the simplicity of it, the happiness John draws from him is effortless. It comes with no ulterior motive from either party, their friendship is simply innate, genuine and entirely mutual; with John, Sherlock was allowed to be happy, allowed to be human.

 

Those memories stand out, glorious, in high definition technicolour, they are brightest and warmest he possessed, they feel _right_ ; in those memories he _belongs_.

 

It’s a rare experience in music to listen to a piece so overwhelmingly powerful that it gives you goosebumps, your body reacting viscerally to the sound. Performing the notes is one thing, but played without heart or passion, the sounds are meaningless, they don’t give you that connection, that eureka moment. You need that final spark.

 

That is exactly what John was to Sherlock, John was his crescendo, John was the swell of the strings, he was the soaring key change, the deep reliable undercurrent of the beat. John was the core of it all, the soul of the piece, the sheer force and joy of the music that makes you shake with it, brings tears to your eyes.

 

With John in the midst of a case, Sherlock felt strong, unstoppable; tendons straining, muscles firm and impassioned. He felt a new physicality in himself, he was energetic, lithe; a formidable force, body just aching for the fight as they strode into battle. When they were in their element, bursting with potential, high on adrenaline, sparkling, fired up; it made Sherlock feel like they could do anything in the world.

 

He loved it; he loved the adrenaline, the excitement, the rush. He loved his _life_ ; so full and alive with movement, pelting along with purpose, at dizzying speeds as they chased down the danger, as they risked it all, standing firm; ready for all the world would throw at them.

 

The adventure; thrilling and intoxicating, the sheer intensity with which it thrummed through their veins. It felt like driving a fast car with no brakes through the city; speeding through slippery streets in the pouring rain, only time to react, blood pumping, moving instinctively, wrestling with the wheel, barely in control, one slip away from death. Faster and faster, swerving violently, tyres squealing, visibility next to nothing, determination and fight the only things spurring them on.

 

No one else could understand; no one but them, and if there is _one thing_ that Sherlock misses, it’s that word; _them_. Because it always was _them_ , wasn’t it? That’s how people referred to them, never individually, always together; John _and_ Sherlock, Sherlock _and_ John. That’s how it felt; just the two of them against the rest of the world.

 

They were comrades, fighting a vicious war that only they could see; they depended on one another, held the life the other carried in their open arms. It was crazy, it was insane, it was terrifying, it was _better than cocaine_ ; it was all he lived for.

 

The clarity of them was a tangible being, everyone around them took notice, saw the invisible wires that connected them; saw that they _belonged_ , that they were made for each other.

 

His eyes never felt so clear, so sharp, and with John acting as catalyst his mind was bright enough to eclipse the sun with its brilliance. John woke him up; he made him faster, focussing Sherlock’s energy, pushing him to be better.

 

They complemented each other as perfect opposites, their dynamic and undeniable chemistry leaving words unnecessary. John, a man experienced in combat, made a skilled partner, and they clicked so well, communicating silently, one look was all they needed, to tell them exactly what the other intended to do. He didn’t even _need_ to look, he knew John was beside him, he didn’t need to ask, and he never would, because he would always be there.

 

Or, he’d assumed he would be.

 

He never could have dreamt it would be this good, and god, it was beautiful, he would die for this. They could conquer any foe, do the impossible, the future lay endless before them, the sky was the limit; Sherlock loves this.

 

Sherlock loves _John_.

 

He just knows, can feel it in his blood; that the best is yet to come, they have so much left to do, so many things they can be, there is still so much potential for them, so much that he trembles with it. He wants that, more than anything, he wants that future, to reach out and grasp it. He would do anything to keep the dream alive.

 

But when he left; he slaughtered that dream and left it for dead.

 

It’s all past tense now.

 

His feelings for John have evolved since his departure, even more so with their reunion, because now they are fractured, the shards of bone not realigning quite as smoothly as before the break. It made everything infinitely more conflicting and complex. Because now there _is_ no them, instead there is Sherlock, there is John, and there is John and Mary; three separate entities, where once there was one.

 

When he looks at John, he still feels that same urge to smile, still experiences the familiar flood of warmth, that instantaneous surge of affection. But now that joy is also accompanied by a white hot flash of pain; he sees John Watson and his heart sinks in his chest. It hurts just to look, weighed down by years of regret.

 

He holds himself back now when they are together, they both do, and it’s no longer comfortable. John used to calm him, inspire him, but now the tension is palpable; they are guarded, no longer able to speak freely. There are so many words that Sherlock cannot say.

 

In John’s presence he is both as happy and as miserable as he has ever been.

 

Philosophers _also_ say that love heals all wounds, but Sherlock _died_ for love, Sherlock _killed_ for love, Sherlock _returned_ for love, and the wounds are still gaping more than ever. Fuck philosophy and all its contradictions; Sherlock’s love will be what kills them all.

 

The date of wedding is set, and it lurks ominously in the periphery of his mind, creeping closer with every passing day until he can no longer ignore it. He knows he should be happy for John, but instead he is gripped with an overbearing sense of dread. Best Man; he feels ill just thinking about it. It takes three days, four packets of cigarettes and approximately six hours of sleep before he can even contemplate writing the speech. He throws up afterwards.

 

He forces himself not to react, keeping his expression neutral, unaffected, watching from the wings as John moves on with his life; he smiles, he laughs, he _participates_. He tells himself that restraint is noble, that sacrifice is what people do for the ones they love. He pretends that he wants this; John is happy, Mary is happy, everything is fine.

 

Sherlock is in _agony_.

 

The closer the date looms, the more his apprehension grows, resignation churning in his gut. He's not sure that he can do this. Because missing what they were; it’s killing him, chipping away, breaking him down bit by bit. On the outside he gives the performance of a lifetime, but on the inside? On the inside he is _screaming_ , screaming for John to snap out of it, to _see_ him. But then John will look at him, look into his desperate, broken eyes; and he will _smile_. Sherlock’s heart feels brittle in his chest.

 

 _Sherlock_ sees it; Sherlock remembers everything, but John? John does not.

 

John has forgotten the thunder of the pavement under his feet, he has forgotten lungs straining, hearts pounding in tandem, so attuned to one another that they move as one, fighting, grappling; his weapon just an extension of his body.

 

He does not remember how all-consuming it was, how they became deaf to everything else in the universe, how they leapt across rooftops without hesitation, how John could look at Sherlock and just _know_ , how he could read every hidden syllable, pick up every subtle shift in body language.

 

The connection they had was forged stronger than iron or blood. In the moment, it encompassed them, drawing them forever closer. Sherlock would have done anything he asked, He would have died; he would have loved him all his life.

 

And he _has_ , he has done everything in his power to save them, but the future has turned out nothing like he envisioned it, and despite his best efforts, with every day, they only grow further apart.

 

Perhaps John remembers things differently from him; perhaps John never felt the power of Sherlock, as Sherlock did him. Perhaps Sherlock never made his heart sing with just one look; perhaps he never felt that loyalty so strong, the devotion that he thought would bring him to his knees. Perhaps John does not _want_ for Sherlock to love him.

 

Or maybe John has just forgotten, maybe it is still there, maybe Sherlock can remind him. Sherlock wants to shake him, he wants him to wake up and remember; he wants him to come _back_ , not to go where Sherlock cannot follow.

 

God he hopes it’s still there, he hopes it’s not gone, that John’s grief induced amnesia can be lifted yet. Because John is moving on, with another, John is walking away, and he’s taking Sherlock’s whole world with him.

 

Oh if he could scream, scream at John to remember, to remember what it was like; to remember _them_. He acts as if they never existed, as if he could just walk away from something so profound and powerful, as if it means nothing to him. As if he _wants_ to forget.

 

John is leaving him; John is leaving before they’ve even begun.

 

It is a widely accepted fact that over the course of seven years, every cell in the human body will die and be replaced. But the extent to which this affects the brain remains largely unknown to us, because though our bodies may change, undeniably there are certain fundamental aspects of our minds, such as memory, that remain seemingly intact.

 

So this raises the question; do neurons remain impartial to the death revolution, or are they extinguished along with all the others? If they are indeed replaced, then how is the knowledge they retain translated when they wither and die? How much will be lost?

 

Science cannot tell us; here we reach the limits of human knowledge, our own minds remain a mystery to us. We know our functions, the roles of proteins and hormones and muscles; human beings have even mapped our entire genome down to each one of the four nucleobases, Adenine, Thymine, Guanine and Cytosine. But little is known of what it means to have consciousness, personality, or the source of our existence.

 

It seems impossible for Sherlock to believe that all that is John exists only in the nucleus of a few fragile nerve fibres, because if those cells are indeed destroyed and replaced every seven years, then what does that mean for John’s memory?

 

When those specific neurons in John Watson’s brain that are tasked with the memory of Sherlock must die and be reborn, how much left of their quarry will remain? Will John retain everything he held before, or will Sherlock be enveloped and consumed by his immune system, purged and excreted from his body?

 

In seven years, John’s entire body will have been replaced, and not a single cell will have ever felt Sherlock’s touch; they will not know him. John’s very DNA will have forgotten him.

 

John’s chair stands empty now, drawing his eyes. He stares transfixed for hours, glazed over and lost in his head, lost in a world where John is still his. It rushes at him as a montage, fast, overwhelming, his heart clenches around them, pulling them close.

_  
'Afghanistan or Iraq?’_

_'Want to see some more?’ ‘Oh god yes’_

_'Extraordinary, quite extraordinary’_

_‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done’ ‘And you invaded Afghanistan’_

_‘Got your breath back?’ ‘Ready when you are’_

_'He wasn’t a very nice man’_

_‘Take my card’_

_‘How would you describe me? Dynamic, enigmatic?’ ‘Late?’_

_‘Sherlock run!’_

_‘Are you wearing any pants?’_

_‘No one could be that clever’ ‘You could’_

_‘The best and wisest man that I have ever known. Yes of course I forgive you.’_

  
He can see them so clearly; he sees them walking side by side, he sees them laughing inappropriately, uncontrollably, lost in the moment. He sees them working together, living together, breathing together. He sees colour, he sees motion, he sees joy.

 

The longer he watches and the harder he holds on to it, the more the picture ages, the more the strains of laughter weaken, the more John’s smile dulls, until the memory of him is more melancholy than anything. It’s all fading now, grey seeping in at the edges like a grainy photograph. John is waning from his side, becoming transparent, slipping further and further away, until Sherlock is losing him, until John is gone, and Sherlock is alone.

 

He doesn't want to be alone, he's not sure if he knows how anymore.

 

It hurts to remember him, because now he can _only_ see him here, in memory. They will not run for their lives, they will not laugh breathlessly on the pavement, in the alleys, on the stairs. There will be no more silliness, no more dazzling smiles of knowing mischief. Sherlock’s eyes will not crinkle in delight, and John’s will not shine with a brightness that makes it impossible to look away.

 

John has forgotten him, and Sherlock hates him for it. He _hates_ him; for leaving him here, for throwing everything aside, for moving on, because how on earth could _Sherlock_ ever hope to forget _him_?

 

It’s not fair, because he does not have the same luxury, he couldn’t delete it even if he tried, he could never wish to. Sherlock doesn’t care how many years pass, or how many lives end; he will forget his _own name_ before he allows himself to forget one second he has spent with John Watson.

 

But then there is Mary Morstan.

 

Mary is different than the others; Mary is clever, Mary _likes_ him, or at least she says she does. He supposes that he likes her well enough, as much as he likes anyone; at the very least she’s a vast improvement over any of John’s previous conquests.

 

Mary is good for John, she understands him, understands that Sherlock is an important part of John’s life. She won’t give John an ultimatum; he knows that, she’s not that stupid. All the other ones did, it’s why they didn’t last very long. No, Mary is not going to make John choose, she loves John and John loves her. He never loved the other ones.

 

Sherlock tries not to hate her, really, he tries.

 

John is getting married. He knows that John won’t forget him, not entirely, but in a way it feels like he already has, because John has forgotten _them_. His priorities have changed and it will never be that way again, oh John will try to stay in contact, but he will drift, he will move in different circles, he will have children and settle down in the suburbs, fading slowly, steadily away.

 

And Sherlock…Sherlock will remain. He will stay in his (their) flat and continue on as he always has, alone with his (their) memory and an (John’s) empty chair. In a way, it feels like John has died, because although he sees John more now with the wedding planning than he has in years; they are together, but _they_ are gone.

 

He remembers his mother, even many years after Father’s death, how she still looked sad. He asked her once, and she explained it to him. She spoke of all the memories the two of them had shared; hundreds of private experiences that no other human being alive was privy to.

 

_“They are both sacred and a curse.”_

 

She said that she was the only one who held those memories now; the partners to those memories died with Father, and she was left with only half. It made her terribly sad that she was the only one left to keep them alive, and she carried it as a burden, for if she forgot, then they would be lost forever. But no matter how hard she clung to them, with every passing day those memories continued to fade, until the loss was too much for her.

 

John is not dead, but he can see the comparison.

 

John has lost those memories, severing the connection and leaving Sherlock the sole custodian. It is up to him alone to remember them, and he feels the weight of this terrifying responsibility. He thinks in some ways this is worse, because he will still see John, and with every day he will see those memories fade; the cruellest death to watch.

 

He understands now, how mother felt as she watched Father slowly slip further and further from her, his mind decaying prematurely. He was only a boy, but he vividly remembers the day Father asked who he was, and Mummy started to cry, begging him to remember his youngest son.

 

The idea of John seeing him, and looking right through him as if he were a stranger makes him want to curl up and die. But it’s already begun; when John comes home he acts like a guest, too stiff, too formal, a long cry away from the man who walked into this same flat and claimed it as his own.

 

He knows he caused this (something about a bed and lying in it), and that it is selfish and hypocritical of him to resent John for abandoning him when it was he who left first. The thing is, Sherlock’s exile was never going to be permanent; he always knew that he was coming back, but somewhere along the way, he had forgotten that John _didn’t_.

 

Sherlock left London, but never for a second did he leave John.

 

So it had been a shock to discover that John had not been waiting for him at all, that he had not been dreaming of the day when they would reunite, as _he_ had. Because Sherlock had thought of little else; every waking second for two years. He’d assumed he would return to find John just where he’d left him, that they would wage their separate wars and emerge victorious to fall into the other’s waiting arms.

 

He couldn’t have imagined them doing anything else, he’d never even considered it; sentiment clouding his judgement.

 

He’d needed that fantasy to carry him through his darkest moments, clinging to it; a lifeline in a world that was irredeemably black. He _had_ to believe that there would be an end to his suffering, that he would see John again and all would be well. It gave him strength when he thought he had none, it forced him to get up when he longed to just lay down and _die_.

 

He’d willfully remained ignorant, a subconscious act of desperate self-preservation, refusing to think of the consequences, lest it set him down the slippery slope of despair and self-hatred, which would have certainly meant his end. If he’d known what he was really coming back to, he never would have made it out alive. But his denials have left him vulnerable and utterly unprepared for a world in which the truth will cripple him.

 

Because John _didn’t_ know, John thought he was dead, John _moved on_. Now John is actually leaving him, mind and soul, and it feels like betrayal.

 

He grits his teeth, simply unable to accept that John is gone. He has to remind him somehow, he has to bring him home, shake him; he has to give him those memories back. Pining and wasting away in the dark will not save him, only John can do that.

 

He strides purposefully across the room into the kitchen to snatch up his phone, one word echoing in his head.

 

_Liar._

 

He knows he promised not to do this, he knows that John begged, no; _ordered_ him not to _. ‘Not this one Sherlock,’_ he said, and like a true friend, he'd listened, he'd held his tongue. But Sherlock doesn’t care anymore, not about anything but this, fuelled and distraught with grief, he will not make the same mistake twice, even if it does end up killing him, this time, he has to know the truth.

 

_Speak now or forever hold your peace._

 

He hits call.

 

_“Hello brother dear, to what do I owe this pleasure?”_

 

His brother’s voice feels oily and smug in his ears, and Sherlock wonders for a second if Mycroft has been expecting this call, but no, _of course_ he had anticipated this. Mycroft knows him; he’s been waiting for this call from the moment Sherlock returned.

 

Sherlock is doing a deal with the devil, and they both know it. He takes a deep breath, momentarily indecisive. It’s a huge risk; if he does this, there is no going back, but it is with sinking resignation that he realises that at this point, he doesn’t really have anything left to lose.

 

“I need you to get me everything you have on Mary Morstan.”

 

It’s time for John to wake up.

 

 

 


End file.
